Tragic Ends
by E.L.Black
Summary: Soon after Sherlock's death, John realized what life is like without his detective. Panic took over John's mind whilst depression took over his body. Is it too late for Sherlock to save him? WARNING: slash, self-harm and implied suicide. One-shot.


**Summary:**

**Soon after Sherlock's death, John realized what life was like without his detective. Panic took over John's mind whilst depression took over his body. Is it too late for Sherlock to save him?**

**A/N: This story isn't my creation. It's my friends, she originally posted this on Wattpad, and has given me permission to post this story here. Link to the original story will be on my profile for anyone who wants it. I will be feeding all reviews back to her. I hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own this plot and neither my friend or I own Sherlock.**

**On with the story.**

* * *

John looked through the hallway mirror and sighed in resignation at his unsightly appearance. His hair was slicked with grease and clung on to his scalp like a second skin. Dark bags marred his eyes and stood out like a beacon against his chalky pale skin. His cheeks were gaunt due to his lack of eating. 

In short, he looked terrible.

Ever since Sherlock jumped down to his doom, John didn't see the need to make himself presentable. His days in solitude had been spent in bed where he would cry his heart out for his lost love. And at times, he'd find himself wielding a knife, with its sharp edge loitering on the thin surface of his skin before he would ungracefully sink it through and out again. Each slice was a temporary release from his melancholy. 

This went on for months. 

"Why did you have to go Sherlock? Why did you leave me?" John could feel the suppressed ache in his chest creeping back in and forced himself to gulp in air to loosen its tight hold on his lungs. "Can't you come back? Please Sherlock, I need you!" The cycle began once again. The dam broke and John's vision was distorted as he found himself sobbing uncontrollably. Standing seemed to be difficult for John at the moment and he allowed himself to collapse to the floor in a heap while he clutched his sides in pain. 

"John, dear, are you okay?" Mrs Hudson asked as she opened the door. The commotion could be heard from below and she worried that he'd finally gone beyond the edge of despair and done something reckless. Fortunately, she had found John among the living and sighed in relief, but her distress for him was still prominent. Determination seeped through her as she started towards him. It was time to put some sense back into the man. 

"He's gone. He left me." John wept as Mrs Hudson tried to help him off of the floor. 

"I know, dear. Come on John, we need to get you out of this flat." Mrs Hudson ordered as she pulled John off of the floor and pushed him into the bathroom. John attempted to compose himself and wiped his damp cheeks dry. "Get in the shower and wash. You will get out of your pyjamas and go on a walk." Mrs Hudson shouted through the locked door. 

"Fine!" John half shouted in reply. As much as he wished he could just wallow all day indoors, all the fight had been drained from him for him to think of a better response for the suggestion. 'Some fresh air may even be good' John thought reassuringly as he stepped out of his clothes that were in great need of a wash, just like him.

* * *

Half an hour later, John pulled the bathroom door open and swaggered out only dressed with a towel around his waist. It felt refreshing to finally get rid of the mouldy stench that had accompanied him. And during his shower, he had managed to gain some semblance of order to know that confining himself in bed is not a way to deal with his loss. 

"You look so much better. Here, change into this and get out into the street." Mrs Hudson handed John some clothes and ushered him into Sherlock's old room. 

A sense of panic settled on him and his calm visage shattered. He couldn't do this. "I- I think I'll just change in my room." John stuttered before swiftly turning to face Mrs Hudson, who stood glaring at him. 

"John, get changed." Mrs Hudson commanded as she shut the door behind him. 

John sat on the edge of the bed, the one where Sherlock's head once lay. He could feel tears well up in his eyes but he wasn't going to let them fall. He knew it was time to get back on track. John picked up the jumper Mrs Hudson had given with tenderness and felt his heart beat with yearning. It was not much in significance when it came to aesthetics and was just a plain cream jumper. But it was his favourite jumper; his and Sherlock's. Oh, how john missed Sherlock. John put on the jumper, shortly followed by the jeans it was paired with. 

"Mrs Hudson, thank you for your help, but I don't think I can do this. It's been months since I've left this flat. What if everything has changed?" John voiced his worries as he walked slowly into the living room.

"Nothing has changed, just you," assured Mrs Hudson, "You can be out for as long as you want, but I think you need to visit his grave. It would just be respectful." 

John went for a walk to Sherlock's grave everyday ever since Mrs Hudson made him leave the flat. He had finally set about on looking presentable on each of his visits, for he still cared about what people thought about his look. However, his depression over Sherlock's death still hung around like a black cloud. 

The cutting continued nightly after John's return from his grave. Rather than finding the closure he longed for, the visits only seemed to fuel his misery further. It was not surprising for him that there came a point where he couldn't take it anymore. 

"Sherlock, I thought this would be another one of your tricks. I believed you were dead only because what I believe would be wrong if you were involved. If I thought you were alive, you would be dead. I'm always wrong like that. So if I think that you're dead, you have to be alive. Please Sherlock, please be alive." John choked out as he stood at the end of Sherlock's well-cared for grave. There was the familiar sting at the back of his eyes before it was soon taken over by a heart-wrenching sob that was followed by many more. 

He wanted it to end. He cannot endure anymore of this torture. 

After a few moments of crying onto the gravestone, John made his way back to the gates and called a cab. During the cab ride back to the flat, he made up his mind. 

John got out his stack of paper and a pen and began to write. As Sherlock had said that fateful day, 'That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.' 

So John wrote, for what he thought was hours, before he finally managed to construct one that is worthy of his standard. Looking over the crumpled piece of paper, he decided that it was the perfect justification for his following actions…

* * *

"Lestrade, what have we got already?"

"Look, you can't come waltzing back here like nobody's business. People will talk. You're meant to be dead, for God's sake Sherlock!" Lestrade whispered loudly as he held Sherlock at one end of the dingy alleyway. 

"Well, they should already know since I asked you to tell everyone that worked for you." 

"Well everyone except-" 

"John. You didn't tell him, did you? I asked you to tell everyone but him, and-" Sherlock's rant was interrupted. 

"You didn't tell him?" Lestrade asked, shocked. 

"Of course not. You only found out yesterday, so I was going to tell him later today after I had visited this case." 

"Sherlock, the body…" Lestrade started. 

"Right. Of course. The body." Sherlock pushed past Greg, and the rest of the crew, to the body. He stopped in his tracks and felt his heart stop. His face drained of colour as he saw the corpse. 

"We're sorry, Sherlock. He killed himself and left this note in case you saw it." Lestrade handed Sherlock the blood splattered note. 

**Sherlock,**

**You left me before I could tell you I love you. I cried for you every day. It's taken me this long to understand that I can't live without you, Sherlock. You were my life. Since you won't come back to me, I'm coming to you.**

**I love you, Sherlock.**

**John x**


End file.
